


Death is Part of the Process: Part One, Reno and the Cat

by Licoriceallsorts



Series: Death is Part of the Process [1]
Category: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Crisis Core; Before Crisis; Shinra; Midgar; Nibelheim; Cloud; Tifa; Sephiroth; Barret; Cid; Red XIII, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-01-30
Updated: 2010-02-08
Packaged: 2017-10-06 20:45:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Licoriceallsorts/pseuds/Licoriceallsorts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The events of Crisis Core and Before Crisis combined in one magnificent epic novel, told from the POV of the Turks.  Action, angst, drama, humour; travel to exotic locations, death, sex, love and betrayal, illegitimate children and faulty materia.... This story has it all, so be patient with it. Did I mention it stars Reno and Cissnei?  Viewer discretion is advised.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reno and the Cat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cissnei and Reno wreak havoc while trying to carry out their orders, and Reno does something that surprises himself

 

In the year when LOVELESS went through its third cast change, and Gentleman Joe first rode the Invincible Teioh to victory in the Chocobo Challenge Cup, and Wutai was preparing to lay down its arms in defeat; when Sephiroth was still a hero, and the Shin-Ra Electric Company seemed like a good place to work, and the killing had not yet become routine – Reno and Cissnei were sent on a mission.

            Three days earlier, thieves had broken into the R&amp;D section of the Weapons Development Department at Shinra HQ and stolen the formula for a delayed-action, broad-range Stun fusion materia that was still in its experimental stages. At about the same time, routine radio frequency scans undertaken by the intelligence arm of Public Safety Maintenance had uncovered a small cell of Crescent Unit operatives based in the Sector Seven Slums. When closer surveillance revealed that these Wuteng guerillas were the ones who had stolen the formula, and that their intention was to make and use the materia to disrupt the public transportation system in Midgar, the job became one for the Turks. Reno, who had just turned twenty-one, and Cissnei, nineteen, were ordered to recover the formula, eliminate the Crescent operatives, and destroy their hidden lair.

            _Do it discretely_, Tseng had told them. That meant silencers and no materia. The Sector Seven slums were becoming a refuge for outlaws and insurgents from

every hue of the political spectrum, and the last thing Commander Veld wanted was to spark off a riot that would give Heidegger an excuse to send in the troops.

            _Remember to clean up afterwards_, Tseng had added, looking pointedly at Reno.

            But the cell proved larger than expected, and though Cissnei took out three of the targets with her shuriken and Reno another two with his mag-rod and a third with his gun, two more, lurking in the shadows, nearly managed to slip away unseen through a broken window. The first got out; the second, cutting his hand on a piece of glass, cried aloud and stumbled. Instantly Reno fired his rod. A spark flashed through the room, followed by a sound like bacon popping in the pan, a cry of pain, and the sweet stink of burnt flesh. Almost in the same moment there was a burst of gunfire. A bullet pierced the sleeve of Reno’s jacket, searing his arm. He dropped the EMR, which was still switched on. It landed on a pile of greasy rags; the rags burst into flame. All this happened in less time than it takes to tell. Cissnei, gathering her scrambled wits, raised her gun, then hesitated. Already the shack was filling with smoke. She could see nothing clearly.

            Meanwhile the target with the gun had pulled the injured target through the window. They ran off up the alley towards the busy market place.

            Cissnei dashed after them. Reno grabbed his rod and followed. The targets were still in range. She braced her feet, took aim, and fired.

            “Ciss, no!” Reno exclaimed, too late.

            The targets kept running. She had missed. Cursing, she lifted her gun to fire again. Reno pushed it down with his rod.

            “Look,” he said.

            At the mouth of the alley a woman had fallen to the ground, clutching her arm and screaming. 

            “Oh, fuck!” cried Cissnei. “I just shot a civilian!”

            Around the bleeding woman the crowds drew back in alarm, turning this way and that, unsure where the danger lay. Someone spotted the smoke rising from the burning shack: there was pointing, shouting, pushing, shoving… Panic seized the crowd, and into that panic the two targets disappeared and were swept away.

            “This fire’ll take out the whole sector if we don’t do something,” said Reno.

            “Use some Blizzara – Oh shit, no materia -”

            “Call Tseng.  I’ll deal with the casualty.” Next moment Reno was at the woman’s side, pushing her sleeve up to examine the wound.  

            “You’re Shinra!” cried the man standing next to her. He had paled at the sight of the blood, and was swaying as if he might faint.  He was young; the woman was young, too, not much more than a girl, fair-haired and too thin.

            “Her arm’s broken.” Reno told him. “It won’t kill her, but she needs to see a doctor. Give her this.” Reno took a green pill from his inside pocket.  “And take this.” He pushed a fistful of gil into the man’s hand. “And go up to the Dispensary in Sector One. They’ll take care of her. Show them this card – shit, I’m out of cards.” Reno looked up at Cissnei, who had just joined them. “Give him one of yours, Ciss.  What did Tseng say?”

            “He’s sending Rude and Mozo with the water cannon. He wants us to pursue the targets.”

             “Gotta go, babe,” said Reno to the injured woman. “We’re going after the terrorists who shot you. No one escapes from the Turks! C’mon, partner, let’s move.”

            They ran across the now-deserted shopping area into another alley, turned a corner, and found themselves facing the tall chain link fence that barred the public from access to the plate’s support tower.  Dead end.

            Cissnei wiped a hand over her eyes and looked up at Reno.  Down here, even his hair was just another shade of grey. The eternal twilight of the slums robbed everything of colour.

            “Nice damage control, Red,” she said. “But my ass is still toast. Tseng’s livid. I’m such a fucking idiot! I could have killed her! And now we’ve lost the targets. Did we manage to get the data?”

            “Burnt, I’m thinking,” said Reno.

            Cissnei groaned. “I might as well just shoot myself right here and save the Chief the bullet.”

            He grabbed her shoulder and shook it. “Stop talking like that. We got rid of their hideout, didn’t we?  And that girl’s going to be OK. And we haven’t lost the targets. They went that way.” He jerked his head in the direction of the station.

            “How do you know?” she asked, as they broke once more into a run.

            “I can smell the one I burned. His trail’s in the air.”

            “What’s it smell of?”

            “Pork. Sulphur. That smell plastic sockets have when the fuse shorts. You can’t smell it?”

            “Nuh-uh. I’ll just follow your nose, you Shinra dog, you.”

            Reno didn’t miss a beat. “Guess that must mean you’re my bitch.”

            “In your dreams, Red.”

            They grinned at each other, running shoulder to shoulder.  Pumped with adrenaline, Reno’s feet flew: he could have sped right round Midgar for the sheer joy of running.  Cissnei began to fall behind.

            “Keep up, loser,” Reno called to her over his shoulder.

            They came to the Sector Seven station. He sprinted along the deserted platform and jumped down onto the tracks. Ahead of him the train graveyard loomed. Old locomotives sat brooding in the dusk. The air was thick with the smells of rotting velvet, rust and engine oil. Angry graffiti, mostly anti-Shinra, had been scrawled along the roofs of toppled box-cars.  He waited, and a moment later Cissnei was beside him, panting slightly.

            “Ssh,” he said.

            They focused all their senses.

            There was no breeze here. Nothing stirred.

            From one of the abandoned carriages came the faintest scraping of a shoe against wood, and a muffled groan. 

            “You take the door at this end,” said Reno. “I’ll take the other. Count to twenty, then go in.”

            Cissnei nodded.

            As it turned out, her counting was off by three seconds. While he was still coiling himself to spring, he heard the ‘poc’ of her silenced gun, and the next moment he was knocked backwards as someone flew through the door and hit the ground running. Scrambling to his feet, Reno took aim and fired. The target veered to the left and kept going, unharmed.

            “Shit!” cried Reno. “I missed! How could I have missed?”

            He was about to give chase,             when a strangled cry from inside the carriage brought him up short.  Was Cissnei hurt? Holstering his gun, he drew the EMR and went in.

            The smell of blood hit him first, a tang of iron on the back of his tongue. He saw the target sprawled on the floor in a mess of his own brains, neatly neutralized by a shot that had gone in through a small hole in the forehead and out through a much larger hole in the back of his skull. Cissnei was crouched in the corner, bent almost double.

            “Ciss? You okay?”

            She stood up. Reno saw that she was cradling something in her arms, a furry small thing like a child’s toy. For a moment he wondered if somehow some kid, playing in here, had got caught in the crossfire – until he realized that what she was holding was a cat.  A dead cat.

            “I didn’t mean to,” she said in a small voice. “It took the ricochet.”

            She sounded ready to burst into tears. Reno couldn’t have that: he hated it when tough girls cried. A little awkwardly, he put a hand on her arm.  “Ciss, don’t go all girly on me now, hey? You just blew that guy’s brains out. Are you seriously gonna start bawling over some scrawny old cat? Come on.”

            Her eyes burned in her white face. “That man deserved to die. But I hate wasting life for no reason, Reno. I _hate_ it.”

            “It’s just a cat. Shit, Ciss…“ Why was she looking at him like that? What was he supposed to say?  “Look, you’ve probably done the poor runt a favour. It’s nothing but skin and bone. Probably strayed down here from the plate. The rats round here are bigger’n it is. At least you gave it a quick death.” Aiming for a sterner, Veld-like tone, he added, “C’mon, Turk, we’ve got a mission to complete. Pull yourself together.”

            That seemed to do the trick.  Cissnei stood a little straighter, inhaled a deep breath. Her lips weren’t trembling any longer. Reno pressed his advantage.

            “That’s more like it. Now put the thing down. We’ve still got – “

            A bullet sang past his ear.

            Reno dropped to the floor. “The fuck!” he hissed furiously. “He came back!”

            Cissnei’s shuriken flashed silver through the air. 

            She missed, and the target ran, and the Turks pursued him. Through the train graveyard they played their deadly hide and seek, and in the end they caught their target, and killed him, and after searching his body and finding nothing, Reno used his rod to reduce the corpse to a pile of greasy ash.  Then he called Tseng.  Of course with the boss there was no question of white lies. As briefly as possible, Reno summarized all the ways in which the mission had gone wrong: the miscounting of the targets, the escape of two through the window; the fire, the wounded civilian, the panicked crowd; their failure to find the stolen formula…. 

            The only detail he omitted was the dead cat.

            Tseng said, “You can go back and search the body in the carriage. Tell Cissnei to go home now. The Commander will see you both tomorrow morning.”

            A hot little wire of something like fear knotted itself in Reno’s gut; determinedly, by sheer strength of will, he forced it to relax. Shutting the phone with a snap, he turned to meet his partner’s big round eyes.

            She said, “I’ve landed you in it, haven’t I, Red?”

            “We both screwed up. The fire was my own fault.”

             “When they shot at you - and then the fire – that threw me. And then the woman, and that cat… I lost my focus. There’s no excuse. Sorry for being such a fuck-up. I know it doesn’t make up for it, but do you want me to finish down here? You could go home.”

            Reno shrugged. “Nah, I’m good. You go home, it’s OK.”

            “But your arm – “

            “It’s fine.”

            “But – “

            “Don’t argue with me. I could do with the overtime.”

            “Yeah, right. Hey, Reno – thanks for not mentioning that cat to Tseng. I know I was pretty amateurish tonight, but I’d hate for him and the Chief to think I was… you know… _soft_.”

             “You? Soft? You’re a diamond.”

            “Am I? That’s a nice way to put it. Anyway, it won’t happen again, I promise.”

            “Yeah, yeah – go on, take your skinny butt home and let me finish up here.”

            She gave him a flip of the hand in farewell, and set off along the tracks.  With his rod slung across his shoulders, and his other hand in his pocket, he stood and watched her go, her little upright figure growing smaller in the distance.  She was about to pass behind a locomotive and disappear from his sight, when he called out to her, “Hey, Ciss?”

            She looked round, smiling. Her teeth, and the whites of her eyes, caught what little light there was.

            “It’s good to be working with you again,” he told her. “Next time, don’t be gone so long.”

            Cissnei mimed a salute, then laughed, and darted away.

   Reno made his way back to the dead cat’s railway carriage.  Carefully he searched through all the folds and pockets of the target’s clothing, but found neither disks nor printouts. Most likely the formula had been destroyed in the fire…. Not that that was going to cut much ice with the Commander.  Ramping the EMR to full voltage, Reno incinerated the corpse, and was getting ready to leave, when he heard a noise.

            A noise like the feeble miaow of a starving, wounded, suffering, not quite dead cat.

            It had opened an eye, and was looking at him.

             “Fucking hell. You’re one tough little bastard, aren’t you?” said Reno.

            It was a jumble of bones in a fur sack, sides heaving, tail limp. And it had a hole the size of a five-gil piece in its gut.

            Reno could see it was beyond help. He drew his gun, intending to put the animal out of its misery.  Cissnei would never need to know. He cocked the trigger.

            Something moved in the far corner of the carriage. A streak of pink and green, shadowy, stealthy, and swift – but he was swifter, oh yes, always, because he was Reno, the fastest of the Turks, never outrun or outmaneuvered. With the butt of his pistol he broke the thing’s neck, and it turned out to be nothing but a monster, a little cripshay that evaporated in front of his eyes, leaving behind on the carriage floor the contents of its stomach: fifty-three gil in coins, a half-digested rat, a candy wrapper, some slimy string, and a small bottle of potion.

             “Hey,” he exclaimed, surprised. “Score.”

            He glanced from the cat to the potion and back to the cat again. The coincidence seemed improbable, but maybe magic always worked that way.

            It was just a small bottle of potion, enough for a small life.

            Did potion even work on animals? He had no idea. He knew nothing about animals.  Monsters, yeah, he knew them all right. But nice little family pet type animals?  Not a clue. Still, he supposed it was worth a try. Taking a firm hold of the cat’s head, he used his thumb and his middle finger to force its jaws open, and tipped the contents of the bottle down its throat. 

   The effect was almost instantaneous. A momentary glow, a sparkling aura, radiated from the little body, appearing most intense around its wound. The cat’s eyes widened. Life came back to it. Hissing, it lashed its tail and showed its claws. Reno grimaced in sympathy. Potion wasn’t as bad as cure materia, but it still hurt. You got nothing for nothing in this world.

   Within seconds, the bullet wound in the cat’s belly had closed up. By tomorrow the scar would be gone. Its fur felt softer, thicker, under his hand. Deep inside the cat’s body vibrations revved like the engine of a motorbike, or the ghost of one of the dead locomotives.  It closed its eyes, and fell asleep, yet even in its sleep it continued to purr.

            Reno took off his jacket, laid it on the floor, placed the sleeping cat inside, and carefully rolled it up, not too tight, not too loose. Fishing his PHS from his pocket, he tried to call Tseng, but the number was engaged, so he left a voice mail to let the boss know the mission was complete and he was knocking off for the night.  With his gun back in its shoulder holster, his EMR swinging from its belt loop, and his rolled jacket tucked into the crook of his arm, he headed for the station to catch the last train back to the upper city.

 

*                        *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *

 

            Reno’s apartment was small, nothing more than a studio with a kitchenette.  He could have afforded something bigger – few twenty-one year olds in Midgar were earning his kind of salary – but what would have been the point? He wasn’t home much and he didn’t own much. Just the wide-screen TV, the DVD player, and a few bits and pieces of souvenirs picked up here and there which he only hung on to because he kept forgetting to tell the cleaning lady to throw them away.  She had tidied his magazines into three stacks on the coffee table: _Helicopter Today, Booty Babes, _and _Practical Electronics_. Shinra paid for two of the subscriptions.

            Reno put the bundled jacket on his bed and unrolled it. The cat was still sleeping. It – or he, judging by the two taut little balls of fur jutting beneath its tail – was a ginger tabby.  It didn’t look very big, even for a cat. Maybe it was still a kitten? When did a kitten turn into a cat? Reno didn’t know. Leaving it to sleep, he took a can of cold Sephiroth-brand beer (‘_for that heroic taste’)_ from the fridge and went out onto the balcony.

His apartment was on the top floor of a building near the edge of Sector 8, in a cul-de-sac just off the main road. The apartment’s balcony faced outwards, away from the buffed metal tubes and mirrored glass of the Shinra building dominating the inward skyline. From up here, on those rare days when rays of sunlight broke through the clouds, he could catch a glimpse of distant hills.  It was the next best thing to flying a helicopter. Sometimes he dragged his mattress onto the balcony and slept here.

            Tipping his chair back, he put his feet up on the balcony rail, popped the tab on his beer, and drank deeply, looking up at the sky. Of course it was never truly night even in upper Midgar, just as it was never truly day. The low-lying clouds and the halogen glow from the mako reactors put paid to that.  It was hard at first for outsiders, people like Natalya, from Mideel, and Mozo, from Costa, to get used to Midgar’s darkness, but for Reno, who had never lived anywhere else, moving up from the slums to the Plate had been like coming into the light. And after a while the city’s sepia palette and insomniac moodiness started to feel like just the right kind of backdrop for one’s life.  Edgy and elegant. Cool.

            He was lighting a cigarette when the cat jumped onto his stomach.

            “Agh!” he cried. The chair rocked; the cigarette snapped in his fingers, and he dropped the mako lighter.  It bounced once, skittered under the railings, and was gone. The cat leapt down again.

            “Shit!”

            He glared at the cat. It gazed back unblinkingly. It was sitting in the way cats do, very upright, tail wrapped round its paws with a Tseng-like precision.

            “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

            The cat was inscrutable.

            “What do you want?”

            The cat looked at him harder, as if to say: _what are you, stupid_?

            “You’re hungry? You want food?”

            Reno went into the kitchen. In his cupboard there was a tin of baked beans that had passed its expiry date and a bag of microwave popcorn.  He didn’t need to look in the fridge, because he already knew that all it held were two six-packs of beer, a large tin of dark roast coffee, a block of tofu that had been there for over a year, and a half-eaten Moogle Munch.

            When he put on his jacket he saw the bullet hole in its sleeve. Now he’d have to submit a requisition for a new one. More form-filling. Great.

            He rode the elevator down to the ground floor of his building, where there was an all-night minimart, garishly lit and smelling unpleasantly of cheese.

            “Got any cat food?”

            “Third aisle on the left,” said the Wuteng at the till, not lifting his eyes from his newspaper.

Reno took three cans and a bag of the dry stuff, and added a new lighter, buffed chrome, at the checkout.

Back in the apartment he opened a can and put it on the floor.  The cat approached with extreme caution, nostrils flaring, whiskers twitching, tail held stiffly tense. Reno was fascinated, and more than a little impressed, by its self control. He’d expected the starving animal to pounce on the food and wolf it down in seconds. Were all cats as wary as this? Or had this one learned the hard way?

He went to take a shower. When he came back, the can was licked clean. The cat stared at him. “More?” He opened another can – chopped liver flavour. “Don’t bust your gut, hey?”

            Soon the second can was empty. The cat began to purr. Reno bent over to pat its head.

            White hot needles of pain scored the back of his hand.

            Cursing, he jumped back.  “What was that for?”

            His hand was bleeding. The scratches were deep. He rinsed off the blood in the sink, applied potion and a Shin-Aid. The cat’s eyes followed his every move.

            “I save your fleabitten ass, and this is how you repay me?”

            The cat turned around, lifted its tail, and let Reno have an eyeful of its puckered pink arsehole. The action seemed so deliberate, so almost-human, that Reno burst out laughing.  With an air of grossly offended dignity, the cat stalked over to the bed, jumped up, curled nose to tail on Reno’s pillow, and promptly fell asleep.

_            There are times_, thought Reno, _when I’m a mystery to myself. _ What on earth had possessed him to rescue this ingrate? Had he done it just because he could? A dying cat, a girl’s big sad brown eyes, a moment of magic in the right place at the right time, on a night that stank of piss and blood and hot metal?

            Cissnei’s words resonated in his mind. Wasting life was a hateful thing to do. Who should know that better than the Turks?   The Chief had taught them a hundred ways and more to part a man from his soul, both the cruel ways and the kind ways,  and had taught them, too, that none were to be used casually or for pleasure. They were professionals. Which was not to say they couldn’t enjoy their work. For Reno, the hunt was the thing, the chase, the speed, the pitting of his skills against an opponent who meant business. Reno liked winning. And he liked his enemies to know that he’d won.  The jobs he liked the least were the ones when they never knew what hit them. The blow dart.  The bullet in the nape of the neck.  Was it really kinder? He sure as hell wouldn’t want to go that way, without a fight. Without a sound.

            The luminous digital clock on the bedside said half past two. Reno was due in the office at seven. That meant three and a half hours sleep. Not bad; he’d managed on less. Fortunately the bed was a presidential-size.  Giving the cat a wide berth, Reno lay down on his back and gazed up at the ceiling. He did not want to think about his appointment with Commander Veld tomorrow morning, so instead he thought about what he should do with the cat.  The best thing, the right thing, would be to give it as a gift to Cissnei.  She’d be all _Oh Reno, my hero! You saved the little kitty! _and by the time she found out it was a fluffy psychokiller with switchblade claws it would be too late, he would have washed his hands of the thing and she’d be stuck with it. That would teach her to nearly let him get his head blown off while she mooned over some pathetic scrap of fur. He’d need to buy a leash first, though, or a cage, or something that would allow him to remove the cat from his apartment while keeping his skin in one intact. Mulling over these plans, Reno fell asleep.

            When he woke up in the morning, the cat was gone.

 

   


	2. Some People Think Turks Are Glamorous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Veld and Tseng discuss their recruitment policy, we meet more Turks, and Veld demonstrates his management style.

            As he rode the tram to work that morning, Reno tried to figure out what could have happened to the cat.  The only ways out of his apartment were through the front door (tripled locked and bolted), through the bathroom window (propped on the lever, but the gap wasn’t wide enough for even a skinny cat to squeeze through), or off the balcony… and he had left the balcony door ajar last night.  So – had it climbed onto the railing and fallen? That seemed the likeliest explanation. The only other possible route was over the rooftop, but the cat could not have jumped from the railing to the eaves; the distance was too great. So much, then, for his act of random kindness. The cat was probably a furry pancake by now.  At least Cissnei would never have to know.

            Rattling along, thinking these thoughts, Reno suddenly sensed he was being followed.

            He was sitting, as he always did, in the corner at the rear of the tram, with his back to the wall. Casually, almost lazily, he ran his eyes over his fellow passengers. They were the usual crowd of working stiffs and schoolchildren: there wasn’t one face he hadn’t seen before. Yet someone was watching him.  In that watchfulness Reno sensed neither hostility nor friendly interest - so it wasn’t a pretty girl checking him out, unfortunately.

            Whoever it was, they would show themselves when they were ready. Folding his arms, Reno leaned back against the upholstered seat and closed his eyes. He had something more immediate hanging over his head to worry about.  

            The Chief was not going to be happy about last night’s performance.

  


On the 66th floor of the Shinra Electric Company Building, the light outside the window had turned from splenetic green to liverish yellow, sign that it was fully day.  Veld and Tseng sat facing each other, a pile of manila folders spread across the polished table. A bottle of mineral water stood by Tseng’s elbow. Veld nursed a shinrafoam cup of coffee between his large hands.  One hand was boney and rough-skinned. Dark hairs sprouted on its reddened knuckles. The other hand, though it looked real at first glance, was made of titanium and silicon.

            The two of them, Director and Lieutenant, were going through potential candidates for recruitment into the Turks.

            Veld put down his coffee, reached for the next folder, flipped it open, and scanned rapidly down the page. His brown eyes narrowed under heavy brows. “What is this?” he demanded, holding the document up for Tseng to see.

            “It appears to be a resume, sir. For an application.”

            “Since when have we been accepting _applications_? The suit finds the man it fits, that how it’s always been done. Look at her specs, Tseng.  Look at her family name. Recognise it?”

            Tseng nodded. “Mideel gentry. Old money.”

            “They make Shinra look like a parvenu. Her hobby is big game hunting, for god’s sake.  And there was another one….” Veld’s hand searched through the folders, found the one he was looking for. “The heir to the chief of Bone Village.  Listen to what he says here. _I want to discover life on my own terms_.  Does he imagine he can do this by joining the Turks? What world do they think they live in? What’s wrong with them? Are they spoiled? Is that it? Have they exhausted every thrill money can buy?”

            “It’s possible. But you know, sir, Turks are considered to be glamorous by some people,” Tseng replied blandly.

            Veld stared hard at him for a moment, hunting for a hint of a smile. Then he chuckled: a deep, pleasant sound.

            “Myths are useful,” he said. “Which is more than I can say for these candidates.  They’re too old, for starters.”

            Something like the shadow of a cloud passed over Tseng’s face. Veld, if he noticed it, gave no sign, but went on, “And they’re not hungry enough. Don’t waste my time with any more of these _applications, _Tseng_._”

            “I will have Reno put them through the shredder immediately upon receipt, sir.”

            “Ah yes,” said Veld, sitting back in his chair. “Reno. Has he come in yet?”

 

 

Outside the building and sixty-six floors down, a crowd of Shinra office workers was seething up the marble steps and through the narrow security doors into the lobby.  They were many, and they were pressed together too close for comfort; each one of them was impatient to clock in and get to work. Yet even they, accustomed as they were to the sight of Turks on a daily basis, moved aside in subtle eddies, like sardines parting for a barracuda, to let Reno pass. 

            The thrill this gave him never grew stale.

            He took the steps three at a time, twirling his nightstick. With him it was always either sprinting like a mad hare or sloping along with his hands in his pockets; as Rude had once pointed out, he could never just _walk_ like a normal person.  The back of his head had registered the fact that the stalker from the tram was still tailing him, and still seemed to be posing no threat. On any other day, Reno might have wondered if it was Cissnei playing a trick on him, trying to freak him out.  But she would be in no mood for jokes this morning.  

            The lobby and mezzanine were bustling with secretaries and IT guys and middle managers elbowing each other, with varying degrees of politeness, for a spot in one of the elevators. Reno, in no hurry to face the music, decided to slouch against the front desk for a while: he could chat up the new blonde receptionist while keeping one eye out for the stalker to reveal himself. 

            The receptionist stood up as he approached. “Hi, Reno.”

            She knew his name. Sure she did - they all did. He gave her his patented lazy-lidded smile, guaranteed to weaken knees at thirty paces.

            “Oh my God,” she squealed. “So cute!”

            It was almost too easy.

            But wait – now what was she doing? She had pushed back her chair and was hurrying around the reception desk towards him, hands stretched out, eyes wide, looking almost – scary -

            “Oh!” She fell to her knees beside him. “So sweet!”

            “Hey – hey – “ He took a step back. “Isn’t this kind of – “

            “Look at him! He’s so _little _and _cute_! Is he yours, Reno?”

            Reno looked down.

            The cat looked up.

            So _this_ was his stalker.

            They stared at each other – or it would be truer to say that Reno stared at the cat, and the cat looked right through him as if he were not there.

            “Aw, little kitty,” crooned the receptionist, “Do all the big trampling feet scare you, huh?”

            The cat gave her a look of utter contempt. She sighed rapturously.

            “It’s funny,” she said, sitting back on her heels, “I would never have pegged a Turk as the kind to keep a pet. You all come across so cool and ‘talk to the hand’ like. But why’d you bring him here? There’s a strict no animal policy, didn’t you know? Except for Dark Nation, of course.  Look, we have a storage cupboard in the back, I could put him in there for you if you like. No one would know. I’d take good care of him, I promise.”

            “It’s not my cat,” said Reno. “It just followed me here.”

            “Oh.” Her face fell. “Oh well, it must be a stray. Are you lost, little kitty? You look like a healthy kitty, you look like somebody takes good care of you. I bet they’re looking for you right now. I’d better put you back outside – “

            “Don’t touch it!” cried Reno.

            But the cat was already in her arms, snuggled up against her neck. Reno could hear its engines revving. Against the thin fabric of her blouse its paws kneaded in rhythm with its purr as she stroked its back, and it gazed over her shoulder at Reno with suddenly sleepy green eyes.

            “Let’s go, kitty,” said the receptionist.

            Reno now abandoned any lingering notion he might have had of giving the cat to Cissnei. Clearly the animal was not something that could be given, or commanded, or owned. He had done his bit by saving its life; let it look after its own neck from now on.  He watched the receptionist put the cat down on the ground outside, come back in, and shut the door; through the tinted glass he saw the cat walk away without a backward glance.  Then he made his way through the thinning crowds to the elevator, and rode up to the 48th floor.

 

 

            “Something’s wrong,” said Veld to Tseng. “What is it?”

            Across the table Tseng meet and held the brown depths of the older man’s gaze. “Nothing, sir,” he lied.

            Veld wasn’t fooled. “Don’t give me that. I can read you like a book. Come on, my boy, spit it out.”

            Tseng hesitated.  

            He trusted his Commander more than anyone – far more than he trusted himself. And Veld, in return, trusted him. An essential element of that trust was Veld’s expectation that Tseng would speak his mind honestly when called upon to do so.  But the mental reservation niggling away at him now seemed hardly worth mentioning.  He was never happy being openly at odds with the Commander.  

            “It’s  - it’s the candidates, sir.” Tseng gestured at the three folders that remained in front of them, the ones selected.

            “You have a problem with them?”

            “They are…. young, sir.”

            “Too young, you think?”

            “That’s not for me to say.”

            “But you think it,” said Veld. The dark scar that seamed his left cheek from the bridge of his nose to the corner of his mouth was twitching a little – with anger? Or amusement?  Even Tseng, who was closer to the Commander than anyone, had trouble reading the older man’s face sometimes.

            Veld said, “You’re think they’re too young for this line of work, don’t you? You think they’re just children.”

            “If you insist,” Tseng replied, “Then, yes, they _are_ children.”

            “And how old were you?”  
            “That’s different – “ said Tseng without thinking, and immediately wished he hadn’t.

            “Why different?” Veld’s eyes glinted. “Do you think you‘re somehow unique?”

            Tseng looked down at his hands, folded pale against the dark blue of his trousers, and held his tongue.

            With a rough gesture Veld sent the three remaining manila folders skidding across the table into Tseng’s lap. “Read Natalya’s summaries,” he ordered. “Out loud.”

            Tseng opened the first folder.“ ‘Male, sixteen. Place of birth: Madouge Corner. Parents untraceable. Current address: Mythril Jail, held on a charge of manslaughter. Weapon skills: martial arts, explosives. Notes: accused in the death of his employer, a mining-gang operator, to whom he owed debt-bondage-“

            “Next one,” said Veld.

            “ ‘Male, sixteen. Place of birth: Midgar Sector 5 slums. No known relatives. Current address: Wall Market. Weapon skills: sawn-off shotgun. Notes: has been in Don Corneo’s employment as an enforcer for the last three years –‘ “

            “Next,” said Veld.

            “ ‘Female, fifteen. Place of birth: Corel. Father killed in mine collapse ten years ago. Mother and siblings died in bombing raid during Wutai War. Current address: Corel. Weapon skills: knives. Notes: performs novelty knife-throwing act. Occasional prostitute, question mark’ –“

            “Technically speaking,” said Veld, “You’re right, of course. If we go by the count of years, they are children. And yes: the fact that they are children works to our advantage. Children are fast learners. Their morality is still fluid. Children obey even when they don’t see the point of an order. A child’s loyalty is like a steel cable, and children need to feel they belong to something – a gang, a family, call it what you like.  But if you think those three children are better off where they are now, just say the word, and their folders can go into the recycling bin.”

            He stood, holding out his hand.

            Tseng said nothing – as Veld had known he would, for there was nothing to say.  After a moment, he closed the folders and passed them to Veld, who put them into his briefcase.

            “Those kids left the playground long ago, and we can’t put them back,” Veld said as he snapped the case shut. “Don’t get sentimental, Tseng.  You have that weakness in you; I’ve noticed it before. But you can’t be their rock unless you’re hard.”

 

 

             The first person Reno saw when he walked onto their floor was Cissnei.  She was alone in the lounge area, standing with her back to him, staring out of the panoramic window.  Off to one side, the wide-screen plasma TV was showing the breakfast news with the sound muted.

            Reno lit a cigarette. “Yo, Ciss.”

            She didn’t turn around. “You_ had_ to be late this morning. I’ve already filed my report.”

            “Keen, aren’t we?” he retorted, but his heart wasn’t in it.

            Stock footage of the Sector Seven slums filled the TV screen.  The scrolling subtitles read: _Dangerous group of Wutai rebels pacified by Shinra.  Security reports no further threat to residents. _Reno found the remote and turned up the sound. The scene cut to the outside of the Sector One dispensary.  A thin, pale woman with her arm in a sling was talking to a reporter off camera. Reno recognized her at once.  “The rebel just came out of nowhere and shot me for no reason,” she was saying. “If that young man and woman from Shinra hadn’t been there, I would have been killed for sure. They’re heroes, risking their lives to keep – “

            “Turn it off,” said Cissnei.

            He did, remarking, “Why do we even have to write reports when he knows everything already?”

            “Can’t you just go and get it over with?” she exclaimed. “I’ve had no fucking sleep and I’ve been here since four, just waiting.  The waiting’s the worst. And you act like – like – “

            “I was followed to work today,” he told her.

            “What?”

            “By a cat.”

            “What?”

            “It wasn’t dead. When I went back, it was still alive, so I healed it – “

            “What? How?”

            He took her arm. “Come talk to me while I file my report, and I’ll tell you.”

            They went through the pneumatic plexiglass door to the inner office. Chrome shelving units lined tobacco-coloured walls, and each piece of furniture was arranged so that nobody sat with his back to the door or the window. The floor, a padded speckled linoleum, absorbed footfalls. Rude was at his desk, fiddling with a digital camera no bigger than an eyeball.  He looked up and grunted hello.

            Three of their colleagues were out today. Natalya, who at thirty-six was the oldest of the Turks, had been away on a scouting mission for the last two weeks; bespectacled Knox, the number three man, was in Junon, while Mozo, whose battered boxer’s face belied his sharp detective’s mind, had left at dawn for the Grasslands with a second class SOLDIER named Zack Fair to promote Lazard’s recruitment drive. That left twenty-five year old Rosalind, expert in all things ballistic, who right now was sitting at a computer terminal, her back ramrod straight, her feet neatly together on the floor. The bob of her blonde hair had been cut with razor precision. Reno slid into the seat next to her. Without moving her eyes from the screen, she said, “Did you sleep in those clothes?”

            “And a very good morning to you too, Roz.”

            “They smell. And there’s a bullet hole in your sleeve. For heaven’s sake.”

            He laughed, and began to type rapidly with three fingers, talking to Cissnei all the while. His completed report was a series of bullet points, riddled with spelling mistakes and lacking any punctuation.

            He pressed send. “Done.”

            A tense silence fell.

            All four knew what was coming.  Rosalind and Rude had been in Reno and Cissnei’s shoes before now, though it was probably true that nobody had stood in those shoes as often as Reno. They all understood the necessity of punishment. It was part of who they were; of what they did.

            It wouldn’t be long. The Chief must have read Cissnei’s report by now.

            In the silence, a faint scratching sound could be heard.

            “There’s something outside,” said Rude,

            They turned their heads to see a small dark shape sitting on the windowsill, tapping on the glass.

            “Is that a bird?” said Rosalind.

            “Holy shit!” cried Cissnei. “It’s a cat! Quick, get it in before it falls.” She ran to the window, followed by Rosalind; the two of them pushed hard but the frame refused to budge. Cissnei swore. “When was the last time we opened this thing?”

            “We’ve never opened it,” said Rosalind. “It’s against company rules.”

            “You need to unlock it,” said Rude, pushing back his chair and coming over. With his thumb he flicked the catch. The window flew up, the two female Turks tumbled backwards, and the little ginger cat jumped down into the room.

            Cissnei rolled over onto her elbow. “Look! Reno! It’s your cat!”

            “Is this _your_ cat, Reno?” demanded Rosalind.

            “No! It’s just a crazy stalker!”

            “How the fuck did it get up here? Forty-eight floors,” Cissnei marveled. “How is that even possible? It must really love you, Reno.”

            “Or really hate me and really want to shred me.”

            “It is kind of cute, though,” said Rosalind. “Hey – Rude, are you all right? You’ve gone pale.”

            His sunglasses fixed on the cat, Rude was backing slowly away.

            “Don’t you like cats?” asked Cissnei

            “I – have an allergy.”

            “You’re not allergic to anything,” said Reno. “I’ve read your medical report. Hey – you’re not…. scared of it, are you, big guy?”

            “Not scared. I – just don’t like it.”

            “But it really likes you,” said Cissnei.

            Tail up, ears pricked, purring loudly, the cat was making a beeline for Rude.

            “Cats always do this to me,” said Rude, and there was something almost like feeling, like a groan, in his voice.

            “Good,” said Reno, “Maybe now it’ll leave me alone and persecute Rude instead.”

            “Why did you help us open the window, then?” Rosalind asked Rude.

            “Couldn’t let it fall. Just keep it away from me.”

            “You big softie,” Cissnei smiled, bending over to pick the cat up.

 “Careful!” cried Reno.

 “Yow, shit!” Cissnei dropped the cat and wrapped her hand round her slashed wrist.

The office doors hissed open. Tseng came in, and stopped.  He took in the scene: Rude backed against the wall; Cissnei scowling in pain; Rosalind cross-legged on the floor, her hair messed and her tie askew; the opened window, the cat, and Reno…. Well, Reno looked no worse than he ever did.

Tseng said, “What’s that cat doing in here?”

For a long moment, nobody spoke.

Then Reno forced a laugh and said, “It’s our new recruit, boss -”

“Shut up, Reno. Rosalind, what’s been happening here?”

Rosalind had risen to her feet, was smoothing her jacket and straightening her tie. “Sir, the cat was at the window. We were afraid it would fall, so we let it in.”

       “The open window is a security breach. Rude, close it. Rosalind, do something about that cat. Reno and Cissnei, come with me. Commander Veld is ready to see you now.”

 

* * * * * * * * * *

 

            The Commander administered his punishments in the Turks’ secret chamber.  This was a large, windowless surveillance room, with a smaller ‘cooler’ room leading off it, located on the floor between floors. No elevator stopped there. It appeared on none of the plans for the Shinra building. It had no number, and none of its doors could be accessed from the endless stairs. Outside the department, only two people knew that it existed and how to find it: Reeve Tuesti, who had designed it, and President Shinra.

            While Veld dealt with Reno, Tseng and Cissnei waited outside in the corridor.  Neither of them spoke. Tseng studied a spot on the wall about a metre to the left of her shoulder. Cissnei kept her eyes fixed on her shoes. When he thought she wasn’t looking, he stole quick glances at her. She was biting the inside of her cheek. The walls were soundproofed, but both knew from experience what was happening to Reno in there.  Her turn was next.

A beating normally took between fifteen minutes and half an hour, depending on the seriousness of the offence.  The offender was required to remove his or her suit jacket, but otherwise remained fully clothed; the objective, as Veld had explained to Tseng, was not to humiliate them, but to _teach_ them. Veld never lost his temper when he was engaged in corporal punishment. He used his belt, as a father might who disciplined his children for their own good, and he took his time, working the sinner over with care, striking him, or her, on the shoulders, the back, the thighs and the buttocks, but never the face; never where outsiders might see the welts, and, seeing them, leap to conclusions.

Outsiders would not understand, nor did the Turks desire their understanding. Among the initiated, no explanation was necessary.

Only rookies, Tseng reflected, really cared about the pain. Fear of pain was the first stage, the hump they had to get over.  Pain was a constant. You learned to live with it – the expectation of it, the reality of it, the memory of it. To be any good at this job, you very quickly had to get to the point where the prospect of pain – your own, or someone else’s – didn’t make you flinch, didn’t cause you to hesitate that split second too long that made the difference between life and death.  Outsiders accused the Turks of being indifferent to suffering. The Turks understood that their objectivity was something to be proud of.  

Tseng glanced again at Cissnei, only to find that she was looking at him. Their eyes met.  Hers, golden brown with flecks of copper, widened slightly; she gave a wry little smile, a twitch of her left shoulder, as if to say _Hey, Boss, whaddyaknow – back a week and already I’m in the shit. _Tseng felt a smile touch his own lips in response.

None of the others could have got that smile out of him, and he didn’t even mind admitting it. Although he had realized very early on in his career that it would be a mistake to get too attached to any of his colleagues, he couldn’t help feeling glad that Veld had called Cissnei home.  Her femininity brought warmth into the office.  She had a knack for managing Reno that made Tseng’s own job easier.  And she was beautiful, of course.  Those big eyes could light up a room.

She hadn’t been anything much to look at when the Commander had first recruited her – more of an eyesore, really: a skinny, scrappy ten-year-old with her head shaved against lice, wearing a patched school tunic too short to cover the scabs on her knees.  To Tseng’s eye, at the time, there had been nothing special about her, nothing that made her stand out from the orphanage’s other three hundred fierce, hungry kids, any one of whom would have killed for the chance of that scholarship to the military academy.  But Veld had recognised her promise straight away. The Commander had a nose for a Turk. He could sniff out raw potential in the unlikeliest candidates – like the trainers at the chocobos auctions, who ran their eyes once over a flock of wild birds and knew immediately which ones would be champions. 

Veld only ever backed winners - and thus, by choosing them, he had defined them.

The door to the surveillance room hissed open. Cissnei immediately pulled in her chin and stood up straight.  The Commander appeared in the doorway. His forehead was glistening; sweat darkened the armpits of his shirt. By the looks of things, he’d given Reno quite some going over. And maybe, Tseng realized, Reno hadn’t been entirely selfish in insisting on going first, “to get it the fuck over with”, as he’d claimed. Veld’s arm must be growing a little tired by now.

Reno was already locked in one of the punishment cells in the cooler. When Cissnei’s beating was over, she would be locked in another, and the two of them would be left to meditate for a few hours on the nature and significance of failure. At the end of that time, it would be Tseng’s job to release them.

“Go in,” said Veld to Cissnei, standing back to let her pass through the doorway.  He turned to speak to Tseng. “Board meeting’s at eleven. I’ll need to shower and change first. Meet me in my office at ten-fifty. We’ll go together.”

“Understood,” said his lieutenant.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the place for me to acknowledge my enormous debt to the Inimitable DA, for the translations of the scripts of Before Crisis posted on her website Gunshot Romance; to SandG at The Lifestream.net for his summaries of the BC missions, and to Kain424 on youtube for posting footage of the game. Anything good in this story has its roots in their labours of love; any errors are all my own.   
> DA's translations have been so widely used that her names for the BC Turks have become almost canon. I have kept her names for some of the Turks; for others, I have substituted my own. The BC Turks mentioned in this chapter are:  
> Rosalind, Gun, Female (Elena's older sister)  
> Mozo, Fistfighter, Male  
> Knox, Katana, Male (DA's Adrian)  
> In BC, all the playable Turks are recruited at or after the start of the game. In this story, some of them have been working for Shinra for a while. It was easier that way. Rosalind, Mozo and Knox are all senior to Rude, Reno, and Cissnei.


	3. Friends Like These

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we find out what Tseng thinks of the Board of Directors, Rufus tries to impress him, and Reno remembers his first time in a helicopter

The floor of the Shinra boardroom was carpeted with an expensive deep pile broadloom the colour of ripe tomatoes. Tseng’s footsteps made no sound as he followed his Commander in.  They were late. The other Directors, six men and one woman, were already sitting in their leather chairs around the long, blond wood table, studying the spreadsheets displayed on their computers.  They all looked up when Veld pulled out his chair.

             “Ah,” murmured Scarlett. “Our favourite gangster and his pet guardhound. I feel safer already.”

             “Perhaps we could get started now,” said Hojo.

            Tseng took up his position behind Veld’s chair, as quiet as a shadow. Soon everyone forgot he was there – everyone except the President, who, after all, signed Tseng’s paychecks, and Lazard, who sometimes turned a smile his way, or posed a question designed to draw him into the discussion. (Which was something Veld had forbidden. Tseng was there to make mental notes, not to participate).

            Lazard Deusericus was one of the few points on which Tseng could not come to a full agreement with his Commander.  Veld disliked Lazard, considered him unequal to the position of Director of Soldier, thought he dressed like a pansy, and did not trust him.  Tseng did not trust him either, but that was business, nothing personal.  He believed Lazard had more backbone than Veld was giving him credit for.  And his apparently genuine friendliness made him difficult to dislike. 

            But was friendship all that Lazard was after?  If so – if he believed it was possible to offer friendship to a Turk and have that offer accepted – then he did not yet perfectly understand the way his father’s world operated. Or was he in the process of rejecting that world? Was he on the lookout for fellow travellers? Veld suspected it, and the bizarre emails Lazard occasionally circulated only fuelled his doubts, reinforcing his conviction that this illegitimate son of the President had inherited neither his father’s intelligence nor his good judgement.

            Next to Lazard sat fat Palmer, a man whose purpose on the board continued to elude Tseng.  His post, Director of the Space Program, was a sinecure: the space program was the President’s pet project, and he was the one who really ran it, working closely with Scarlett, whose weaponry workshops made the mako-powered rocket jets. Still, every court must have its jester, Tseng supposed, and Palmer was the fool who made Old Shinra look like a king.

            The woman sitting next to Palmer was a different proposition. Scarlet was, after Reeve, probably the most intelligent person on the Board – and unlike Reeve, she was a highly focused, goals-oriented, ruthlessly efficient thinker with no time for sentiment. As the Commander had once phrased it, she had balls of tungsten carbide.  Though Tseng personally found her repellent, he would not underestimate her, nor make the mistake of inferring too much from the low cut dresses and red stiletto shoes she favoured.  Scarlett’s appearance was entirely strategic. She was the least flirtatious, least manipulative, most direct woman he had ever met. And the coldest.

             Next to Scarlett sat the Director of Public Safety Maintenance, dressed in his green Field Marshall’s greatcoat. The shape of Heidegger’s head always put Tseng in mind of a battering ram. He was essentially a simple man, Heidegger, fond of parades and square-bashing and prepubescent girls. Vanity had made him stupid, and resentment had made him aggressive; he was disposed to hate Lazard almost as much as he hated Veld, and would have been infuriated to know just how little they cared. Heidegger was so predictable, he was the least dangerous of them all.

         Of Professor Hojo, the less said the better. He was, regrettably, untouchable.

            Next to Hojo sat the visionary engineer of Midgar, Reeve Tuesti. Outwardly he resembled a younger, finer-featured Veld, with tawny skin and thick, soft brown hair brushed back from a wide forehead. But his eyes were permanently distracted.  When he wasn’t busy building castles in the air, he played with toy robots, and sometimes tumbled absent-mindedly into bed with one of his star-struck interns.

            Tseng thought Reeve suffered from a moral defect that made it impossible for him to think of himself as anything other than a good person. Veld thought Reeve was willfully blind.  As long as he was living his dream, it didn’t matter either way, but if anything were to burst Reeve’s bubble, self-interest alone would probably not be enough to keep him loyal.

            Next to Reeve sat President Shinra, dressed in a velvet suit the same colour as this carpet on which Tseng was standing. His manicured fingers toyed with a fat cigar. His small eyes were bright blue. His remaining hair was yellow. He was a very happy man. He said it himself, all the time, at press conferences and at company rallies and in board meetings like this one, and it seemed to be true, but in any case Tseng was not paid to have opinions about the President.

            To Shinra’s left sat Veld, and so back to the Director of SOLDIER, Lazard Deusericus.

            Of all the men and one woman sitting around this table, Commander Veld thought that Lazard was the one they would most likely have to kill, one day. Tseng was, reluctantly, inclined to agree with him, though he felt that when the time came it would prove to be a case of the lesser of two evils. The Department needed Lazard. He was their one really reliable ally on this Board.

            The meeting had, as usual, already degenerated into an argument about money.  Veld was trying to put his case for a twelve percent increase in the Turks’ budget, and Heidegger kept shouting him down. Raising the budget for Administrative Research would mean cuts in programs elsewhere. The alternative would be to raise the tariffs again, but both Reeve and the President opposed this, arguing that the public’s faith in the company was their biggest asset, bigger even than Sephiroth.

            Scarlett’s fiefdom was safe; the peace with Wutai was too new and too fragile to permit economies in weapons development.  All the same, she opposed Veld’s request on principle. The last thing the Shinra Corporation needed, she asserted, was any _more _Turks.  Administrative Research was already too big for its boots, having grown so far beyond its original remit of providing support for the Science and Urban Development Departments that it was now encroaching on territory that belonged by rights to Public Safety.

             “Damned right,” said Heidegger. “It’s not like they do anything my army couldn’t do. What we need is a return to the good old days. Don’t you think, Shinra? When the Turks were just one man and his dog.”

             “From the looks of things,” said Scarlet, who had remembered Tseng’s presence and was glaring at him, “They still are.”

            Lazard of course was making positive noises in Veld’s direction.  More funding for the Turks would mean more resources for SOLDIER, a program whose future had not been entirely certain since the defection of Genesis and Angeal the year before.  And that would make Hojo happy, because Administrative Research fed his monster factory and SOLDIER took the products, and so a growth in either department, or both, inevitably allowed Science to expand.

            Veld’s PHS rang.

             “Take it outside,” said the President.

 

.

 

            Veld took Tseng with him. There was nothing left to hear that had not been said and heard before.  The President would come to a decision in his own good time; he might well have made up his mind already. Tseng often wondered what the real function of the board meetings was. Entertainment? Nostalgia? He closed the double doors on their bickering, and turned around to see young Rufus Shinra, white and gold, fifteen years old, sitting on a blue velvet banquette in the hallway, apparently absorbed in a game on his PHS.

            “Natalya?” said Veld into his phone. “You’re breaking up.”

            Next to Rufus lay his companion and guardian, the cat-like cuahl Dark Nation. An ugly animal, Tseng had always thought: angular, hairless, with dappled bluish-black skin and a fleshy scarlet crest resembling a second tail sprouting from the back of its head.  Claws that could rip a man’s throat out; teeth that could pierce steel. Not the kind of pet a father would normally give his child.

            “Speak up,” Veld barked into the phone.  Gesturing for Tseng to stay with Rufus, he went further down the hall, his phone pressed to his ear.

            “He doesn’t want me to overhear his conversation,” said Rufus. His eyes remained fixed on the PHS screen, thumbs clicking rapidly. “You’re supposed to distract me.”

            Ordinarily, Tseng would have been willing to make time for Rufus. Arrogant and aggravating as he could be, the boy was also bright and observant: conversations with him were often interesting, and occasionally informative.  But Veld’s lieutenant couldn’t take his eyes off his Commander, who was now down at the end of the hallway. The tension in Veld’s posture made Tseng feel uneasy. He couldn’t hear Veld’s words, but he could hear his tone of voice: it sounded, from this distance, angry.

            Rufus said, “He’ll get his money, don’t worry.”

             “You shouldn’t eavesdrop,” Tseng answered without thinking.

            The boy put down his game and turned his head to give the Turk a look, cynical and coldly amused, that would have made his Old Man proud.  “You’re a fine one to talk."

            Unlike his older half-brother, this boy never made the slightest attempt to ingratiate himself with his father’s senior managers.  He spoke to the board members as if they, not he, were the children. He was rude to Scarlett, gave Heidegger orders, snubbed Palmer, sneered at Hojo… He did, however, treat Reeve with a certain amount of deference, and spoke respectfully to the Commander – to his face, at least.

            Rufus said, “You know, Tseng, don’t you, that my father intends to announce my appointment as Vice-President some time in the next couple of weeks?”

            Tseng nodded. The Commander had told him this in confidence the day before.

            “Yes, you always know,” Rufus smiled. “That’s why I like talking to you.  I don’t have to watch what I say.  Of course, you understand that my old man has an ulterior motive. Morale in SOLDIER has been weakened by the loss of Genesis and Angeal. Sephiroth only takes orders when it suits him.  Lazard is looking a little incompetent right now. My presence on the board will encourage him to try harder. Don’t you agree?”

            Rufus’ voice was on the point of breaking: once or twice as he spoke it squeaked like a rusty hinge, and Tseng had to work to repress his smile. He glanced down the hallway. Veld was standing with his back to them, phone clamped to one ear, finger in the other, shoulders hunched. From the looks of things, Natalya was having some kind of trouble.

            “Tseng?” prompted Rufus.

 “That’s a reasonable interpretation,” Tseng replied. “ But don’t get your hopes up too high.  Being Vice-President is a ceremonial post. I’m not even sure you’ll have an office.”

             “An office means nothing. Palmer has an office. Mayor Domino has a whole floor. The important thing is that everyone recognizes what being Vice-President means. I’m the designated heir.  My bastard brother may not find it easy to accept that.”

            Rufus paused. Tseng offered no comment.

            “However,” Rufus went on, “If he’s truly loyal to this company, he’ll swallow his pride and accept me as a player in the game.  On the other hand, if he’s not as loyal as he pretends to be, my appointment may push him over the edge. Personally, I doubt SOLDIER would follow him if it came to a direct conflict with my father. It would all depend which way Sephiroth jumped. But whatever happens, we need the Turks up to full strength right now. So your Commander will get his money and his recruitment drive.”

            The boy stopped there, waiting for some reaction from his audience.

            Tseng was prepared to be generous. “I’m impressed by your command of company politics.”

            Rufus cocked an eyebrow. “You’re easily impressed, then. I think the whole thing’s blindingly obvious.”

             “You look just like your father when you do that,” Tseng replied.

            Rufus’ face fell: he tried, but failed, to conceal his irritation, and his failure irritated him further.  Turning away, he picked up the PHS and carried on with his game, no longer the precocious prince, but an ordinary sullen teenager.

            As happened so often when he dealt with Rufus, Tseng was left wondering what was really going on inside that blond head. The boy obviously grasped the rationale behind his appointment, and seemed to feel no resentment at being used as a pawn in his father’s boardroom games.  But Tseng doubted Rufus had been given a choice. What fifteen-year-old in his right mind would choose to spend his days sitting in a stuffy office listening to a bunch of paunchy middle-aged executives squabbling over budgets and corporate strategy? 

            The thing about Rufus, though, was that while he was happy to tell you what he _thought_ \- or what he wanted you to believe he thought – he never spoke of what he _felt_. 

            What did Rufus care about? What made his heart beat faster? What _did_ he want? That was what Tseng did not know. Then again, what was left to want when you had everything money could buy, and the prospect of limitless future power?  Rufus’ life, with its endless socializing, was the envy of millions. There were tennis parties, tea parties, dance parties, shooting parties, birthday parties at Costa del Sol and Icicle Inn… A hectic round of closely guarded, carefully vetted _fun_.  Down in the filing room on the 47th floor the Turks kept one whole wall full of reports on where Rufus went, what he did, what he ate, whom he talked to, whom he danced with, and why he laughed or frowned.  He could not stir a step outside the building without a bodyguard at his side.  For a while Reno had been the chief babysitter, albeit under protest - the stiffly decorous parties Rufus attended were not the kind of parties Reno enjoyed – but he’d been pulled off that assignment about four months ago, after the memorable afternoon when, entirely on his own initiative and without asking permission, he’d taken the boy down to the Wall Market and tried to buy him a whore.

             (_“But the poor little buttoned-up shit. I felt sorry for him, Boss.”_)

            Tseng had answered Rufus’ call that day; the self-possessed childish voice on the other end of the line had demanded, firstly, that a helicopter be sent at once to collect him, and, secondly, that the presumptuous red-headed pimp never be allowed anywhere near him ever again. 

            (“_What’s with that kid anyway? I really thought I was doing him a favour. Most boys his age would jump at the chance.”_)

            These days, Rufus’ bodyguard was usually Natalya or Rosalind.

            Tseng’s reflections were shattered by the sound of the Commander’s voice.  Veld was shouting into the phone, “Natalya? Natalya?” unaware, or no longer caring, that Tseng and Rufus could both hear him. “Nats! What’s happening?  What’s that sound? Nats? Are you there? Answer me!”

            Fear gripped Tseng’s throat.

             “It doesn’t sound too good for your colleague, does it?” said Rufus.

            Tseng turned to look at him. The boy had schooled his features into a pretense of concern. His eyes, however, were shining.

 

.

 

            Reno woke with a start. _Shit!_ He’d fallen asleep at the controls of the helicopter. The Chief would_ kill_ him.  With his free hand he pushed at his goggles, and then realized, as he came fully awake, that he was not strapped in the pilot’s seat but crouched in the darkness of the punishment cell – and _fuck_, he _hurt._

Served him right, though.  He’d been sloppy. Careless. He was lucky not to be dead. And like the Chief always said, it wasn’t enough for your head to know where you went wrong. Your whole body had to learn the lesson: every nerve ending, every muscle fibre. That way, you didn’t make the same mistake twice. Your reflexes wouldn’t let you. The Chief liked to say, _the first time you screw up, it’s your fault. The second time, it’s mine._

            Turks did not make mistakes. That was the Chief’s first lesson. SOLDIERs were mutants with mako in their veins and they could afford to screw up because it was practically impossible to kill them. Heidegger’s grunts were like ants; if one or two made a mistake and snuffed it there were plenty more milling around to fill the gap. Turks were few in number and they were human, relying on their wits, their discipline and each other to get the job done. Each one of them, as the Chief liked to point out, represented a precious investment of time and money and years of training.

            When the Chief said _Don’t get wasted _he meant it both ways.

            Reno could just imagine the email:

            _To: All Staff_

_            From: HR_

_            Subject: Squandering Company Assets_

_            It has come to the attention of the Human Resources department that some employees have been careless with ~~company property~~ their lives, in direct contravention of the Company Handbook’s Health and Safety Policy Directive on Risk Management, blah de blah de blah. The Shinra Corporation would like to take this opportunity to remind all employees that the Company ~~owns them~~ cares for their welfare…._

Not that Reno had ever read the Company Handbook.  But he quite liked the fact that there was such a thing. He didn’t like filling out requisition forms, or expense claims, or evaluation sheets; he didn’t like having his inbox spammed with complaints about stolen coffee cups, or roundrobins sharing inspirational clichés; he got restless in meetings that went on for more than five minutes; he loathed having to file anything, let alone alphabetically.  But he liked the orderliness and purpose that forms and meetings and folders and deadlines invoked.  He liked having a stationery cupboard, and not only so that he could steal from it. He liked the busyness of business.  He liked being part of something big.

            Commander Veld was the first person who’d ever hit him as if it mattered – as if he expected Reno to learn something.  To _improve_. Growing up under the plate, kids got swatted all the time whether they deserved it or not, and Reno had learnt early on to roll with the punches. Nature had formed him for a thief, light-fingered, nimble, and stealthy; he could have picked pockets for a living, but had preferred to raid the plate for electronics he could fence in Sector Five. It was more challenging, more of a thrill.  In the end he’d got cornered dismantling the security cameras around Reactor Three; he’d already taken most of the cameras from Reactor Five and pretty much stripped the train station, too, and so (he should have seen it coming: trouble had been closing in on him all day, and he didn’t have many directions left to run in) they sent this big tall skinhead in sunglasses after him (go Rude!), who looked intimidating but turned out to be just a punk not much older than Reno. Rude didn’t even try to chase him; it was like he already knew it would be no contest. He just dropped a Stun on him (cheater) and hauled his unconscious fifteen year old butt all the way up to the floor between floors, and when Reno came to his senses there was the Chief sitting across from him – only Reno hadn’t known his name or even who he was, then – and there were Tseng and Natalya, and Reno had never seen them before either, though he recognized their notorious dark blue suits. On the table in front of them was a security camera in pieces, right down to the last coil and pin.

            “Make it work,” said the beat-up old guy with the scar down his cheek.

            _This day is getting progressively weirder,_ thought Reno, _but at least I’m not dead yet._

            He put the camera back together and made it work.

            “You’re quick,” said the old guy.

            Then he took off his belt and beat the crap out of Reno.

            “That was for getting caught,” he said.

            Later he took Reno up in the helicopter. They went above the clouds and Reno saw for the first time that the sky was blue.

            When they came back down to earth the old guy – the Chief – told him, “We’ve had our eye on you for a while. You’ve got talents we could use. Basically, the job is security.  We’re the President’s bodyguard, we look after VIPs, we monitor the activities of groups and individuals hostile to Shinra, we protect company secrets and oversee the transfer of data. Covert ops and corporate spying, to be blunt.”

            “Cool,” said Reno, who had understood the words _bodyguard_ and _spying _and not much else.

            “Sometimes, to enforce our mandate, it’s necessary for us to kill people,” Veld added.

            _Shit_, thought Reno, _so that’s what this is all about_.

            Veld went on, “From what I’ve seen and heard of you, you won’t have a problem with that.”

            “It was self-defense,” Reno protested.  “Both times.”

            The old guy smiled. Not exactly a pretty sight. “I know what it was. And you did a good job. For an amateur. It’s taken his friends a while to work out who did it. You left hardly any clues behind. We were impressed. So, tell me – did you enjoy it?”

            Reno stiffened. “I’m not some psycho whackjob, if that’s what you think. I told you, it was him or me – “

             “The first time. The second time, you were paying off a debt, weren’t you?”

            How the _hell_ did he know all this? Reno said, “Yeah. Like I said, it was him or me. I did what I had to do.  I’m just trying to get along, man, same as everyone else. What’s it got to do with you, anyway? He didn’t work for Shinra -” Reno stopped, as a sickening thought hit him. “Did he?”

            Veld shook his head. “He wasn’t Shinra material. There’s no room in this company for idiots who go looking for trouble.  That’s why I’m offering _you_ the job. You take smart risks, not stupid ones – and so far, you’re still alive. So. What do you say?”

            “Can I say No?”

            Reno was being sarcastic, but Veld answered him seriously, “Right now you can. If you’re not interested, I’ll drop you back down where we found you and you’ll never heard from us again as long as you keep your mouth shut about this interview.  But before you decide, I want you to be very clear about one thing.  Once you join us, there’s no going back. We are the guardians of this company’s secrets, and we know _why_ they have to stay secret.  That’s our priority. Your own life – _my_ life – is of secondary importance.  Shinra expects absolute loyalty. In return, you’ll be looked after for as long as you live. You’ll want for nothing. You’ll have total job security. You can never be fired. But you can never quit, either. If you turn out to be incompetent or untrustworthy, I’ll shoot you myself.”

            Reno could easily believe it. 

            He thought Veld’s words over, and found they were acceptable. He liked things black and white, anyway. No bullshit choices. It kept life simple. He asked,  “What’s the pay like?”

             “Better than SOLDIER.”

            ‘Brains beats brawn, huh? Do I get to fly helicopters?”

            “I think you’d be a natural. Oh, and one more thing. As I said, we’ve been watching you for a while.  You like the girls, don’t you?”

            Reno wasn’t sure where the old guy was going with this one. He decided to hedge his bets. “I like a lot of things,” he answered.

            “Well, that’s fine. Your private life is your own business, as long as it doesn’t compromise corporate security.  But I want you to understand that I don’t allow office romances. This work can get very dangerous, and we depend on each other too much to allow emotions to cloud our judgment. You need to get that straight right from the start.”

            “Hey, man, you can’t shoot me for being a chick magnet.”

            Veld’s smile twitched again. “Nor would I. A twelve month posting on Goblin Island usually cures even the most hot-blooded romantic.”

            “OK. Hands off the lady Turks. I get it.  One more question – do I have to wear the suit?”

            Veld laughed out loud at this, and his face changed completely. Reno wasn’t sure if that was a good thing. He’d been thinking he’d got the Chief sussed, that this was a man he needed to be afraid of, a hard man, and that that was good, because the Turks couldn’t do what they did unless they felt a healthy fear for the man who gave them their orders. Don Corneo ran Wall Market the same way.  But the sudden softening of Veld’s expression, the warmth in his laugh, suggested there was more to him than met the eye, and this hint that the Chief might be in some sense _putting on an act_ had been unnerving to Reno. People with hidden depths made him wary.

            Six years ago, that had been.

            Without warning the cell door opened, and his little cubicle filled with light – soft, artificial light, but still enough to make him blink. He couldn’t tell who was standing in the doorway.

            “Let’s go,” said Tseng.

            They were alone. Cissnei had already been released and sent wherever: home, a mission, the cafeteria. Reno’s first thought was that he wished he could have seen her. His second was the realization he was starving.

            “How do you feel?” asked Tseng.

            “Hungry. Sore. Stiff. You know.”

            Tseng took from his top pocket a small green pill, a more portable form of Cure materia recently developed by the science department, and held it out to Reno.

            Reno stared at it. They didn’t usually get offered the Cure after a punishment. The rule was: _you brought it on yourself, so grin and bear it_.  He asked,“What’s that for?”

            “The Commander needs you to fly him to Costa. It’s urgent. Take the Cure. Then I’ll explain.”

            The familiar pins-and-needles sensation began at the tips of Reno’s fingers and toes, gathered strength, rushed stinging up his limbs like iodine under his skin, hit his heart the way he imagined a bullet would feel, and then swiftly dissipated in a warm glow.  As his bruises healed, his memories of the punishment cell and the recent beating blurred and retreated into some distant past as if through an infinite line of mirrors, though whether this was a side-effect of the materia or a trick of his own mind, Reno did not know. It was something the Turks did not talk about.

            “Up to flying?” said Tseng.

            “You need to ask?”

            “Then let’s go.”  Tseng set off at a fast pace; Reno stretched his legs to catch up, asking, “You’re coming too, Boss?”

             “Not with you, no.”

            Something in the texture of Tseng’s voice made Reno glance sideways to take a good look at his face.

            “What’s wrong?” he demanded.

             “There’s been a new development. Possibly a threat to the company.  We don’t know who they are yet or what they want. The Commander wants you to take him to Costa so he can talk to the Legend. Charlie usually hears everything that’s going on.”

            “Yeah, and if we’re lucky he’ll feel like sharing. But what about you? Where are you going?”

            “Icicle Inn,” said Tseng.

            They had reached the elevator. Tseng pressed the call button. Reno saw that his hand was shaking.

            “Boss, what’s going on?”

            “Natalya’s dead,” said Tseng, and put the shaking hand over his face.

            “Dead? No, that’s not possible. She’s in –

            “Icicle Inn, yes. And they were there too. Whoever they are, they killed her.”

 

 


	4. The Shinra Building at Midnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Rude and Reno reflect on recent events, a colleague is mourned, and Reno, despite being too drunk to focus, finds his way home

            It was past midnight when Reno returned from Costa del Sol.  In the sunken lounge on the 48th floor he found Rude asleep on one of the grey couches. The little cat was keeping him company, curled up by his feet as neat and tight as the knot in Tseng’s tie.  Something about the cat – its warmth, its homeliness – put a lump in Reno’s throat. He stretched himself out on the opposite couch, arms folded behind his head. Only then did he realize that, behind the sunglasses, Rude’s eyes were wide open, staring out the window.

            “Hey, Rude.” He pitched his voice low.

            “Hey, Reno. How was Costa?”

            On the other side of the vast panes of glass the clouds seethed, forming and reforming in monstrous shapes drenched with the colours of corruption, rotten green, bruise purple, mouldy grey.

            “Sunny,” said Reno.

            The little cat opened its eyes and yawned so wide that Reno could see the ridges on the roof of its mouth. It made a performance of stretching: first one paw, then the other, followed by an arching of its back and a fluffing of its tail, as if it were warming up for some big action. Then it curled around and fell sleep again, purring loudly.

            The Turks were no strangers to loss. Just over a year ago their rookie, Marr, had been killed by Genesis in Banora, along with the one of the guys from the Mideel branch office. They’d hardly had a chance to get to know him.  The year before that, Odilie had been captured by the Engetsu in the marine caves. Her captors had sent her home over a period of weeks, piece by rotting piece. And the year before that, Lou had been lost in the mission Charlie sabotaged…

            But those deaths could be set to the account of known hostile agents, enemies whose names and faces were carved into each Turk’s memory against the day when they would even the score. Natalya’s death was different. It had come to her namelessly out of the darkness, giving no reason, and its agents had vanished into shadows, leaving no clue.

            “Anyone else around?” asked Reno. “Where’s Ciss?”

            “She’s gone north with Tseng to see if they can find… anything. Information. Apparently Nats was interviewing a candidate just before she was killed. And they’ll bring her body back. If there’s anything left to find.” Rude paused. “I let Knox and Mozo know. Moe’ll be back tomorrow. Knox came straight up from Junon. But he’s gone home to his family. He said Barbara’s taking it really hard. She’s known Nats for years. And Roz… I think she went to see her sister. How’s the Chief?”

            “Silent. Furious. When he finds whoever’s responsible, it isn’t going to be pretty.”

            “The Legend know anything?”

            Reno’s lip curled contemptuously. “Like he cares. Beach all day, babes all night, booze on tap; he’s like, don’t bug me, man.  I can’t believe I ever looked up to that guy.”

            “He and Natalya used to have a thing going, Rosalind told me.”

             “What?” said Reno, astonished. “Nats and Charlie? Seriously? It must have been a while back.”

            “Before our time. Apparently some of the old rogue union guys from Corel stole classified documents from the mansion at Nibelheim and were trying to sell them to Wutai. She and the Legend were sent after them. He was supposed to go in and retrieve the documents and she was covering his back. But she messed up, and it was her or the mission, and he chose her.  We never did get the documents.”

            “The Chief must’ve skinned them alive.”

            “You said it. And then he banished them to opposite ends of the planet for six months, Roz says.”

            “Is that why Tseng got promoted over her?”

            Rude shook his head. “She wouldn’t have been any good at his job. She’s too… empathetic.”

            “And too hot,” added Reno. “For an old lady.”

            Rude chuckled. “I always thought it was the Chief who was sweet on her. I thought that was why he gave her all the safe missions.”

            “Nah, he wouldn’t do that. You know he loves us all equally.”

            Where did it spring from, the laughter that burst out of them then? Loud, cackling, ugly sound…  It woke the little cat, who hissed and fled under the sofa. Rude and Reno laughed until their sides ached and the tears burned in their eyes.

            “Oh God – it’s not funny – “ gasped Reno, pressing a fist to his chest. “Oh, shit. Shit, Nats.  Why’d they kill her? Why her? Of all of us?” The laughter in his face had twisted into anger. “Safe mission be damned. No such fucking thing, is there? You know what, Rude? I bet she let her guard down.  She was always doing that. She probably stopped to help them change a tire or something and they blew a hole in her. Fuck it. Fuck _it_ – “

            “I know – “

            “And fuck fucking Charlie for not giving a shit. I wish now I’d punched his fucking face in, smug git. I can’t get my head around it. Can you? I can’t believe we won’t see her again. I can’t believe she won’t walk in tomorrow with that brown paper bag of those cookies she’s always making. God, what’s a woman like that even _doing_ in the Turks in the first place? I mean, look at me, you know: what else am I good for? But Nats, man – she should have married some nice ordinary joe and gone to live in the boondocks, farming chocobos and baking cookies for her dozen kids.  It’s just _shit._”

            Out of breath, he fell silent. The energy of his anger was already ebbing from him.

            No loss stayed fresh for long. Grief waxed and waned and faded. Life would go on. Reno knew this; every Turk knew it; they had lived through it before, and they would do so again, next month or next year, until the day the bullets that bore their own names found them….

            Rude said, “Nats would have been bored with an ordinary joe.  And she hated chocobos. Remember the time we were crossing the desert south of Corel?”

             “And she kept falling off.”

             “And every time she fell, it tried to sit on her. _I’m not a bloody egg!_ Remember?”

             “She sure didn’t have a way with birds,” Reno grinned.

             “She was a city girl at heart. She loved Midgar. She loved this job. I bet if you could ask her now, she’d still say it was worth it.”

            Reno leaned back into the sofa cushions, closing his eyes. Rude was right, as always. Turk or chocobo farmer, Shinra executive or Wuteng shopkeeper, everybody ended up dead in the end. Even the Chief would die one day; even that legendary jerk, Charlie. At least while Natalya was alive, she’d _lived. _ Weren’t they all in this job for the same reason?

            For a while, neither of them felt like saying anything else. They lay and listened to the sounds of the Shinra Building at night: the hum of the reactors, the buzz of the lights, the gurgling of pipes, the occasional rattle of the elevator, and the soft, steady whirr of the ventilation system. The cat came out from under the sofa and jumped up by Rude’s feet; though he frowned at it and curled back his feet a little, he allowed it to stay. It lay with its paws tucked under its white chest, watching them both through half-closed eyes.

            Reno broke the silence.  “So, you planning to sleep here, Rude, or what? You going to go home?”

             “No. My place feels kind of… empty.”

             “I know what you mean,” said Reno. “Mine too.”

             “It’s late, anyway. I’ll just stay here and do some thinking.  I don’t feel like sleeping.”

             “Yeah, me neither.” Reno’s foot had begun to jiggle restlessly. “So….mind if I keep you company?”

             “As long as you don’t talk.”

            They lay on their sofas and watched the clouds boil, and Reno smoked a cigarette or two, and each thought their own thoughts about life and death and work and loss and friendship, and those thoughts were not so different. They had known each other for almost six years now, which was a big chunk of your life when you were only twenty-one.  After a while Rude went and got two beers from the fridge in the kitchen. They drank them in companionable silence.

            Eventually, the night ended, and a new day began.

 

 

.

 

 

            Death, like everything else in Shinra, followed a certain protocol. The Board’s commiserations to Commander Veld were duly noted in the minutes of the morning’s meeting, as was President Shinra’s insistence that the party or parties responsible for such an insult to the company’s authority should be found, and punished, as swiftly as possible.  

            Later, Lazard and Reeve visited Veld in his office to say how sorry they were, and to ask if there was anything they could do.

            In the afternoon HR sent round the announcement via email: _killed in the line of duty._

            Tseng arrived at sunset, by helicopter, with Natalya’s body in a bag. Reno and Knox carried the body down to the mortuary on the dispensary floor. Tseng went to his office, to begin filling out the paperwork necessary for the funeral, while Rude climbed into the helicopter and flew back to Icicle Inn, to help Cissnei hunt for the perpetrators.

            In the white-tiled company mortuary, Knox and Reno laid the bag with its stiff contents on a stainless steel table. Knox unzipped the bag a little way, enough to see her face, framed by the softness of her thick dark hair. Her skin was bluish-white, her flesh absolutely cold. Death had made of her face the usual optical illusion: in one instant it looked like the Natalya they remembered, fast asleep; the next moment it became a stranger’s face, all trace of Natalya erased.

            Looking into the face of a dead colleague was the closest Reno ever came to being convinced of the existence of souls.  These were Natalya’s features, but this was not Natalya.  Something had fled. But where? Up to the stars? Into the mako, as the hippies and tree-huggers wanted everyone to believe? Where did the flame go when he snuffed a match with two wet fingers? Nowhere. It just went out.

            Knox stroked her hair and touched her cheek. Then he zipped the bag closed.            




            Eighteen years they’d worked together.

            Reno said to Knox, “Want to go get pissed?” and somewhat to his surprise, Knox said, “Yeah.”           

            Commander Veld had happened to be in Gongaga at the time, sorting out a problem that was standing in the way of Shinra’s plans to build a reactor there. The Shinra Electric Company had been smaller in those days; its name did not yet inspire that necessary degree of fear in those who might seek to oppose or exploit it, and the Mayor of Gongaga was greedy.  Veld quietly removed him, and returned to Midgar with Knox tucked under his wing.

            You’d expect, thought Reno, that Knox might resent seeing Tseng get promoted over him, given that the Boss was younger by a good ten years.  But Tseng lived and breathed Shinra. If he had any kind of a private life, Reno hadn’t been able to sniff it out. Knox was married; he was the only Turk with a family, and whenever he was in Midgar he clocked off religiously at the appointed hour, rushing home to be with his wife and two small sons. Decent guy. Different kind of world. Reno couldn’t really imagine what Knox’s home life must be like.

            So he was surprised when Knox agreed to risk the wrath of Barbara and go drinking. From the start the plan was to get legless. They went down to the Turks’ usual haunt, the Goblins Bar, across from Les Marroniers on the corner of Loveless Avenue, and put away one pint after another of draught Zolom Triple XXX.  They played pool and cribbage, and talked about anything but death – the new girls on reception, the idiocies of HR, the latest prototypes coming out of Scarlett’s workshops. By midnight they were seeing double, miscounting the points and dropping their cards.  Knox’s tongue sounded too large for his mouth when he stood up and declared, “Gotta go home now.” Reno tried to convince him he should call Barbara to tell her he had to work all night, and then come back to Reno’s place to sleep it off, but Knox would not be persuaded.  On wobbly legs he staggered away in the direction of the train station.

            Reno set off for home, but, unable to walk a straight line, eventually found himself standing outside the Shinra building.  All the lights were blazing. Its brightness and warmth welcomed him in. A security guard sat at the front desk; a cleaning lady with an industrial-sized hoover was vacuuming the red-carpeted stairs.  Holding on tight to the banister, Reno hauled himself up to the mezzanine, fell into the elevator, and collapsed gratefully onto its floor…

            Someone was slapping his cheek. He struggled to raise his eyelids, but they were so heavy. Two hands, one warm, one cold, both equally strong, lifted him to his feet.

            “For God’s sake, Reno. Passed out in the elevator. What next?”

            At the sound of that harsh, gravelly voice, a grin plastered itself across Reno’s face.  Commander Veld had found him. Now the Chief would take care of everything, just like he always did.

            Veld guided his young Turk down a corridor. Through the beery fog that engulfed it, Reno’s brain registered that they were on the 66th floor. He was led into Veld’s office, and through to another room with a bed. The Chief was famously so dedicated to his work that he had made his home in the Shinra building; Reno had never heard of him living anywhere else. He told Reno to lie down, took off his boots, held the wastepaper bin for him while Reno threw up, covered him with a blanket, and went to get him a glass of water.  Reno took a long sip, savouring the coolness in his mouth, and swallowed.

            “Go to sleep now,” said Veld.

            Obediently Reno put his head down on the pillow.  Veld got up to go, stretching out a hand for the light switch. “Hey, Chief,” Reno murmured drowsily.

            “What?”

            “When I die, I want you to take my ashes up in the helicopter and scatter them into the wind. Right over Midgar. OK?”

            “If you like. Now sleep.” Veld turned down the switch. A soft darkness fell.

 

 


End file.
